"Yes," she smiled, "if you're going to be of service to the public you must be careful to devote yourself to worthwhile reforms. You always had a clearer way of putting things, George." She despised him. He could feel it now. He looked at her and wondered again. She was beautiful. A complete change had come over her since he'd come in. She seemed warm with emotion, alive, human. But she smiled in an offensive way. He preferred her viciousness. That was impersonal--something queer in her head. This other was a condescension that angered him. He sat thinking; she was playing with him. It would be better if he never saw her. "How is Henrietta?" she asked. The question had long ago became an invitation to confession. He avoided her eyes. "Fanny and Aubrey were over," he answered. She interrupted. "Please don't talk about them." "Oh, nothing in particular," he hastened. "Henrietta is the same as ever." Doris laughed. "An ideal wife for a future public hero," she exclaimed. Basine frowned. "I'd rather you didn't make a joke about such things, Doris." "I'm not joking. But to be a great leader a man must have only one love--the love of being a great leader." "That's wrong," Basine blurted out. "A woman can help a man forward if he loves her and she's clever and loves him." "She can't," Doris said softly. "Because she doesn't want to. If she loves him, she doesn't want him to be great. She may inspire him but just as soon as she sees his inspiration takes him away from her, she turns around and tries to ruin him. So she can have him to herself." Basine listened impatiently. This was a child prattling. Doris was laughing. He looked at her questioningly. Her laughter continued and grew harsh. "You fool," she sighed, controlling herself. "Oh you fool." Basine shook his head. He was serious. There were hidden facts in his mind. He knew something about what a woman might do to help a man forward. These facts seemed to him allies--secret allies, as he contradicted his sister. "I insist you're wrong," he said. He was determined to prove her wrong. But she went on, ignoring his intensity. "Your wife is ideal, George. Colorless, stupid. Dead. Without desires or egoism. An ideal wife for a man of ambition. The kind that will let you alone." "Nonsense. You're utterly wrong," he cried. He must prove to her how utterly wrong she was. There was Ruth. "Men owe most of their success to the impulse the right woman can give them. Henrietta's all right. But she's so damn dead. She's interested in nothing. Just a child with a child's mind and outlook. And she gets more so every year. Good God, if I had somebody with life in her. Keen and ... who loved me. So that I wanted to be great in her eyes. It would be easier. Somebody ... like you, Doris." He paused, confused. "I mean," he added, "your type. The intellectual and female combined."